I've been quite tired lately. And no, it's not because I'm up all night rewriting Carrie.
It all started a few days ago.
On that fine day, I woke up in the guest bed in my parents' house and my reality-meter kicked in. Mine is hardly a sustainable lifestyle. I am 32 years old, I live with mom and dad in the suburbs, and my shopping habit is being fed by handouts from the unemployment agency. (And I take this opportunity to thank everyone who pays, or has ever paid, French taxes. Much appreciated.) Moreover, my novel (all 30% of it) is probably terrible. Even if it's amazing, no one else might think so (which would probably mean it's terrible after all). And even if other people do think it's amazing, it's likely to take years for anyone to pay me any kind of money for it.
So, I bit the bullet. That's right folks. I applied for a job. A legal job. In a big, scary company. A legal job that is in fact, freakishly perfect for me. Which means I may even get it.
And that's where my problems began. Remember how I said I had been feeling really tired recently? It's because of the nightmares. I kid you not. Actual, honest-to-God, wake you up at night feeling sweaty and needing your mother nightmares. About working.
And by working I mean setting the alarm at 7 every morning - taking an overcrowded metro - sitting in an office all day - getting yelled at by people - being way too tired when you get home to do anything - living with a blackberry attached to your hip like some kind of tumor. That kind of working. The kind that comes with a paycheck.
Fortunately, I have simultaneously discovered melatonin.
And next week I'll be in Namibia.
So then I can dream about lions and tigers and bears. Oh my!